


The Art of War

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series), Karate Kid (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempted Kidnapping, BDSM, Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Dominance, Drabble Collection, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Historical References, Identity Issues, Kidnapping, Literary References & Allusions, Love/Hate, Lust, Manipulative Relationship, Martial Arts, Obsessive Behavior, Other, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Psychological Torture, Reader-Insert, References to Addiction, References to Drugs, Roughness, Stalking, Voyeurism, Yandere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 08:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30069780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: ―Terry Silver's love language was violence.aka; Terry Silver and love as a concept described through seven Sun Tzu quotes.
Relationships: Terry Silver - Relationship, Terry Silver x Reader
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

_＂ Ａｐｐｅａｒ ｗｅａｋ ｗｈｅｎ ｙｏｕ ａｒｅ ｓｔｒｏｎｇ， ａｎｄ ｓｔｒｏｎｇ ｗｈｅｎ ｙｏｕ ａｒｅ ｗｅａｋ．＂_

* * *

He approached you with a mask on, as he often had the tendency of doing.

Playing roles felt safe and natural for Terry. Exceedingly fun too. A way to gage a reaction without compromising one's own private integrity, which was paramount. A way to explore the territory given. Feel your pulse and the circulation of blood right underneath the tender flesh. Discover what you like. Dislike. What you enjoy. What you don't. What you dread. What you ache for. Learn to adapt to it as a result. Discover how to play you like a fiddle without you even realizing you're being played right from the get-go. What tune you'll most likely dance to. Ease you up enough to give you that leverage of space to have you pouring out your secrets and sensitivities to him because he'd make himself appear so very trustworthy in front of you. So well-meaning. So very gentle. So fundamentally good in such a short span of time that the words will fall from your lips all by themselves, before you could even think to imagine stopping yourself or clamming back up, instinctually, against your better judgement - having you act like you've been waiting all your life for someone just like him to come along, at just the right moment in time, under just the right circumstances and allow you to be this vulnerable. This open. This human. This honest. A desire all people shared, almost universally, he learned overtime through experience and sheer observation - a mutually shared need to be able to trust and be weak next to someone else, without fear of betray, abandonment or hurt (and my, my, what a mistake that always turned out to be for nearly everyone craving such things).

And well, pretending to be a poor nobody was a favourite and re-accuring role of his.

Just a struggling, day-to-day, commonplace no one.

Oh, how people loved that one.

They ate it up so well.

Furthermore, you ate it up so well, which was infinitely more important.

You sat there, on a park bench (perfect setting for a perfectly staged encounter) listening to him spinning a heartfelt tale about his struggles in LA, how difficult it was to open a dojo here, furthermore, how difficult it was to even have the start-up budget to rent one in the first place, how he borrowed money he's ought to return soon to some rather unsavory fellows (whatever gets the drama going - a typical Vegas story would do the trick - and it did, clearly - obviously), how he didn't have the influx of students that would make up in monthly profits to his Landlord (Landlord? The hilarity of it all!) how he sometimes holds back on eating well to save up every penny for utilities and the electrical bill in the studio, how he denies himself basic necessities in order to get through the fiscal year smoother and with less debt or credit, how if this business here doesn't yield any results, he'd have to close shop and leave soon, due to economic reasons (to which you reacted with a heart-wrenched pout, as planned) - how this, how that. He threw every possible stereotype under the sun into the bowl of his story and mashed it all together to perfectly nail every sensitivity, weakness, anxiety and fear you might've had, forcing you to relate to him. Empathize. Feel sorry for poor, kindly, sweet, mild-mannered Karate teacher Terry Silver. A man that, technically, didn't even exist, outside the realm of fantasy. But, the net he spinned did. And you get got caught into it's sticky, inviting trap like an unassuming, naive little fly. The spider twirling it's saliva coated, honeyed web around you tightly.

You offered to hold his hand in comfort, sitting thigh to thigh next to him after his artificial sob story was done.

He pulled away promptly, knowing fully well that denying you the closeness of physicality will only make you want it more.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

_＂Ｋｎｏｗ ｔｈｙ ｓｅｌｆ， ｋｎｏｗ ｔｈｙ ｅｎｅｍｙ． Ａ ｔｈｏｕｓａｎｄ ｂａｔｔｌｅｓ， ａ ｔｈｏｕｓａｎｄ ｖｉｃｔｏｒｉｅｓ．＂_

* * *

What eastern philosophers said of love was often true of hate as well - knowing your enemy was a priority.

But, knowing your object of want was an unavoidable necessity.

A necessity Terry figured he'd have to sate if he could proceed any further.

So, breaking into your humble abode became an almost ritualistic habit of his - a habit he enjoyed immensely, sliding through your darkened, silent corridors with an almost perverse glee while you were away. Despite of not needing to be particularly careful, because there was nobody here and you already revealed the schedules of your comings and goings to him yourself, believing him to be reliable enough of a friend and confidante to know, he adored the act of being secretive. He didn't need a key, figuring, that you'd no doubt give it to him freely and willingly anyway if he asked with his big, feigned, puppy-eyes reserved especially for you, leaving you with the impression of there no harm in your darling, pure hearted, eternally charming downstairs neighbour occasionally showing himself in. But, no. He wanted this to be covert. Not quite so obvious as to lead to upfront revelations. He knew how to allow himself in and maybe sleeping over if the heating in his dojo gets shut down due to some sort of malfunction that needs fixing (yet another feigned, made-up story he's overindulged you in).He show himself inside easily. His time in the army taught him that. The skill of subterfuge and lock-picking.The skill of making himself invisible when he needed to be invisible. Silent. Quiet. Sneaky. Deadly. And you'd never suspect him anyway, even if you noticed the occasional knick-knack or trinket changing spots from where you usually left it - your perception playing tricks on you. Making you slightly paranoid. Making you think you were imagining things. Was someone in your home while you were absent? Or did you move that item yourself and simply forgot that you did so in a hurry? He smirked to himself in pleasure at the very idea of your confusion as he left the telephone notebook he looked over idly a mere inch further next to the telephone then he found it. Not enough to raise any possible suspicion, but just enough to mildly irk, frighten and baffle you. It would be akin to have a ghost haunting your house. And maybe it was. Maybe he was the spectre living in your walls. This was the third time this week he's broken in and he's already made himself so familiar with your situation that he knew everything about you - every mundane, tedious, unimportant detail - from what manner of food you kept in the fridge, where you hid your laughable, borderline cutesy stash of _just-in-case_ savings (568 dollars total - less then he pays for _one_ glass of Champagne from a 5000 dollar bottle), to what kind of mediocre, industrial, downright purgatorial detergent you use to wash the dishes. Looking curiously over your photographs and the unimpressive, frankly rather off-putting furnishings of your cheap flat he's helped himself to your drawers like a man who's lived here for years.

Momentarily distracting himself from the fact that this sort of living accommodation was hardly to his tastes with your stacked undergarments.

Sifting through your most private of attire with a playful smile and being unable to stop himself as a result.

Raising a pair of unmentionables up to his nostrils to audibly inhale the fresh, inviting scent.

Terry didn't particularly care for the jarring aroma of the purifier you were using.

He wished the material smelled of you instead.

The sweat, the flesh, the crevices, the salt - _all of it._

His mouth was dry as he stuffed the piece of lingerie into the pocket of his leather jacket and showed himself out.

He knew you'd eventually notice at least one of them missing, but that you'd have no way of explaining to yourself anyway.

Now, Terry Silver at least knew your sizing and what kind of lingerie he'd want to buy you when it comes down to it, at long last.


End file.
